magazine in a spirited manner, considering the fact that she is faced
with the practical problem of circulating a magazine in a certain
peculiar milieu. But he does not add that those are not the colors in
which Miss Monroe, herself, comes forth. If she admitted that she was a
practical woman, trying to print as much good poetry as she can, and
still gain readers, there would only be the question of whether one
believed that compromise is always the only method of assuring the
existence of a magazine. But she refuses to admit that she is a serious
compromiser. She stands upon a pedestal of utter idealism. Mr. Pound did
not mention this aspect.
His claim that Eliot is the only really creative poet brought forth
during recent times is absurd. H. D., Fletcher, Marianne Moore,
Williams, Michelson at his best, Carl Sandburg, and Wallace Stevens are
certainly not inevitably below Eliot in quality of work. Eliot’s work is
utterly original, attains moments of delicate satire, and digs into the
tangled inner dishonesties of men. But many of the poets I have
mentioned are as good in their own way as Eliot is in his, in addition
to their being just as original as he. I have not Mr. Pound’s fondness
for making lists, so I’m afraid I may have omitted the names of some
American poets entitled to mention, even from my own limited view point.
But I will say that at least the number of poets I have mentioned are
fully the equals of Mr. Pound’s nominee for supreme honors—T. S. Eliot.
[I get very tired of the talk about the establishment of two autocracies
of opinion, and the claim that since each is the opinion of a capable
brain each has therefore the right to serious artistic consideration.
Now it is a fact that one particular kind of brain can put forward this
claim and establish its legitimate autocracy. It is the brain that
functions aesthetically rather than emotionally. Most artists haven’t
this kind. Their work drains their aesthetic reserve—and they usually
talk rot about art. There are thousands of examples—such as Beethoven
treasuring the worst poetry he could find. There are notable exceptions,
such as Leonardo, such as Gaudier-Brzeska. Ezra Pound seems to have this
kind of brain. I am not familiar with all his judgments, but those I
have read have always been characterized by an aesthetic synthesis which
means that he can rightly be called a “critic.”
To this kind of brain things _are_ black and white—which means good or
bad of their kind. If by grey you mean that a poet is almost good, then
the critic will have to call him black, meaning that he is a bad poet.
There is no middle ground. If by grey you mean that he is a grey poet
doing good grey work, then the critic will call him white—meaning that
he is a good poet—_M. C. A._]
Complaint
New York Subscribers:
We have read the first installment of the much-advertised London stuff
and our comment is that unless “And ...” and “The Reader Critic” are
restored, and at once, we withdraw our moral and financial support.
For the Archeologist
That great journal, _The New Republic_—I cannot say that great
contemporary journal: it is here with us in the flesh, but in the spirit
it abides with the Bible, the Koran, the Books of Maroni, and all great
and ancient works of prophecy, truth and revelation—that great journal,
mentioning even the least of us, spoke thus: “There was _The Little
Review_ which began in high spirits, published some interesting
experiments and a few achievements, and in the course of three years has
sunk to pink covers with purple labels and an issue ecstatically
dedicated to Mary Garden.”
When these quaverings of senility reached us we were laid waste and
brought to silence. We knew not whether Isaiah or Hosea or Mohamet had
spoken.
But now from the archives of _The New Republic_ comes this fragment in
the form of a rejection of some Chinese poetry: “Our expert on Chinese
poetry does not think that these translations are ... etc.” We feel that
we have come upon something of great interest to archeologists and to
all our readers who are excited over the Mysteries of History. Is it
possible that Li Po himself may be on the staff of _The New Republic_,
now too old to create but still retained on its board of experts?
Mary MacLane’s Criticism
Mary MacLane, Butte, Montana:
All your bits of criticism of my book are true—but didn’t I say them
first? Don’t I say I have a conscience? Don’t I say it’s an exasperating
book—don’t I say it’s all incongruous? Don’t I tacitly tell you fifty
times it is not creative but photographic? I call it a diary of human
days: just that. Not artist days nor poet days. Human days must include
the teakettle, the smoking chimney and the word Refined. Refined is not
my word at all. In my bright lexicon there’s no such word. I use it
because I am living human days and perforce encountering such words now
and again. Have you the courage, jh, to tell me I am too subtle, too
sub-analytic, for you? I set apart the word Refined to show it’s “their”
word, not mine. Yet you solemnly take me to task for questioning the
“refinement”, the “sincerity,” of my mountain shower-bath emotions. I
don’t question anything. I’m saying what “they” do: In “someway the
Lesbian” chapter I maintain I doubly prove, not “refute,” my analytic
freedom. The book being human days includes the domestic thing. I live
in a house and like it. I write as a human being not as an artist. You
can’t get away from your tooth-brush. “Human days” includes satyrs and
sisters looked at from exactly the same vantage—unless you’re a
Christian Endeavor. You write justly, jh, but why label me with that
“sexual”? I wrote also of my shoes: I contributed also the theory of
Shoes.
[Dear “I Mary MacLane”: All you have to say about my “criticism” of your
book sounds just to me. Yes, you said them first and fifty times at
least; that’s why I mentioned them at all. I thought perhaps the reason
you said them so often was because you hoped it otherwise. Perhaps you
are too “subtle,” too “sub-analytic,” too educated for me. I am just a
painter. While I know, from the aching of the heart to the sickness of
the stomach, what human days must include, I haven’t yet got to the
point where I am willing to believe that writing a book doesn’t come
under the same laws as painting a picture, sculping, or making music. If
subject is not transformed into design by some inevitable quality in the
artist then you have not made a book; you have merely helped to clutter
up the place. I may be narrow-minded but I can’t quite see any art as a
common activity or a household duty, indulged in or performed as an
either=or. “I will clean off the snow or paint a picture; I will milk
the cow or do a little modelling.” I haven’t been about enough to have
found it so in any families; nor have I read enough to have found it so
in many families, except perhaps the Da Vinci family.
“Refined is not my word,” you say. I think the book exonerates you; but
why your concern with it at all was my point, not my criticism.
As to the label “sexual,” I meant shoes and all,—the whole hereditary
attitude, in your case intriguing because neurasthenic.
Sorry: but I did not solemnly take you to task. One must even criticize
with joy.—_jh._]
From “The Dial”
“A quaint manifestation of editorial ethics crops out in the April issue
of _The Little Review_. It is in connection with a vers libre contest,
this being the issue in which the awards are made. There was a regularly
constituted board of judges—three people sufficiently competent and
sufficiently well known in their field; but the editor has chosen to
indulge in some disclosures as to the lack of unanimity amongst her
aides and even in some pointed animadversions on their tastes and
preferences. Of the first choice of one of them, she says: What is there
in the ‘subtle depth of thought’? Almost every kind of person in the
world has had this thought. And what is there in the ‘treatment to make
it poetry?’ And the poem itself follows. Of the two chosen for prizes by
another judge, she observes: ‘These two poems are pretty awful’—and she
prints them, with the authors’ names, as before. The third judge plumped
for a pair of others—‘provided Richard Aldington wrote them; otherwise
not.... If he wrote them they are authentic as well as lovely; but if he
did not, so flagrant an imitation ought not to be encouraged.’ A
perfectly sound position to take. Here again the poems follow—and they
are under a name not Aldington’s. Query: has the judge, whose name is
given too, exactly made a friend? Then comes, of course, a succession of
poems approved by the editor but ignored by her helpers.... If such a
system spreads, the embarrassments and even perils of judgeship will
grow. Hereafter few may care to serve as judges, except under
stipulations designed to afford some protection. And as for the poor
poets themselves, such treatment should act to keep them out of
‘contests’ altogether.”
[Here is the old _Dial_ showing them all up. So there is an American
editorial association just like the American Medical Association with
all its criminology of professional ethics!
We thought that the idea of that verse libre contest (it wasn’t our
idea) was to stimulate interest in and more understanding of free verse,
not to offer an operation for judges nor a fee for poets. Taking it
simply as a free verse contest, the editor thought the only concern was
with free verse. Since when has Art to do with ethics or with taste? If
the poets and judges in the contest were as impersonal, direct, and
sincere in their attitude toward poetry as the editor, the fussy anxiety
of _The Dial_ over their plight is needless. But of course if to serve
poetry is to serve yourself there isn’t much point to a contest except
the money. On the other hand, if a contest is to be run on the “tastes
and preferences” or sensitiveness of the judges then it is clear that
the neatest poem chosen by the touchiest judge should win, provided the
poet who wrote it was also easily offended and needed the money badly.
“And as for the _poor_ poets” there should be _something_ to keep them
out of contests—and also out of any other literary activity.—_jh._]
You Do Us Too Much Honor
Louis Puteklis, Cambridge, Mass:
... You see it is a fact that your “art for art’s sake” cannot exist
without supporters: nothing is free from economic conditions which are
the creators and destroyers of people’s tendencies and deeds.
Although I appreciate your surprising efforts, I must confess that I
cannot yet agree with your dictum as to “the two most important radical
organs of contemporary literature.” Until you strike your roots deeper
you cannot soar so high. As for me, I am in touch already with many
other radical magazines in English and in other languages. Radicalism
does not consist in vers libre which murmurs about green grass, soft
kisses, clinging limbs, ecstasy and faintness, the surprises of
passionate intercourse. There is too much of such sensual poetry:
Solomon long ago played the changes on that theme. Such poems come
perilously near the emanations of diseased sexual appetites. There is
neither life nor originality in them. When I read “green grass,” I know
that I am close upon “clinging limbs.” Drink deeper of the Pierian
fount; don’t disturb the grasshoppers!
I think that _The Little Review_ must scatter more sensible seed in the
future and throw away the tares. It will do better, I believe, to take
for its province: Literature, Life, Science; all the fine arts are too
much for its scope; each has its own organs.
Still _The Little Review_ is doing good. Long life to it and may it do
better!
[You see, we said that _The Egoist_ and _The Little Review_ are radical
organs of contemporary literature. That’s all: not economic, social, or
religious. As we have stated a number of times: since all the arts are
from the same source we are not getting out of our province or making
our scope too wide by keeping to Art. Your advice about reducing to
Literature, Life, Science, is a great compliment to our scope, but—well,
for the present we can’t take up such limited and special subjects as
Life, or such obvious and untaxing ones as Science.—_jh._]
The Little Review Book Shop
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Some of the books you will want are these:
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_I, Mary MacLane._ $1.40
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Pound: “Aux Etuves de Wiesbaden”; and several other things of interest.
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“Hello Huck!”
Recall that golden day when you first read “Huck Finn”? How your
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book. You sound so silly.” But you couldn’t stop laughing.
Today when you read “Huckleberry Finn” you will not laugh so
much. You will chuckle often, but you will also want to weep. The
deep humanity of it—the pathos, that you never saw, as a boy,
will appeal to you now. You were too busy laughing to notice the
limpid purity of the master’s style.
MARK TWAIN
When Mark Twain first wrote “Huckleberry Finn” this land was
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Mark Twain was all of these. His was not the light laughter of a
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A Real American
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The world has asked is there an American literature? Mark Twain
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Transcriber’s Notes
Advertisements were collected at the end of the text.
The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect
correctly the headings in this issue of THE LITTLE REVIEW.
The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical
errors were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here
(before/after):
[p. 7]:
... woman sat in the embrazure of a man’s arm, sharing his
chair ...
... woman sat in the embrasure of a man’s arm, sharing his
chair ...